A Scary System

 

When a young, costumed person decides to treat your home to a timeless blend of toilet paper and free-range eggs, the first instinct is to blame the individual in question. I’m here to tell you this is wrong. The problem is not the person shoving dog excrement into your mailbox and lighting it on fire, but rather, a society that encourages children to emulate ghouls, goblins, and ghosts. 

 

You want a monstrous culture, then get kids to dress up as monsters and watch as the transition happens awfully fast. 

 

There is always a hushed discussion around the Devil’s influence, whether it be popular music, tv, or film, but Halloween is typically ignored. Why is that? This is a day (although now it feels like a month, as the holiday encroaches on edge of summer) where Satan and his hideous minions are the norm. Where are the angels? Besides the fallen ones, of course. They are nowhere to be found. 

 

The pandemic normalized mask wearing and anti-social behavior for an entire generation. So the next time you’re scrubbing egg yolk out of your gutters, remember, it’s not the person who threw it who deserves the blame, but the system that created an environment where something like this can happen. Got that? 

What Real Appropriation Would Actually Look Like

 

Bored with my life and career in the 1^st world, I decided to sell my car and buy a one-way ticket to the Amazon rainforest. This was not the Amazon of free shipping, but the one of uncontacted tribes and incalculable beauty. 

 

So I went there with a suitcase full of cash and mosquito nets. Not that the former was of much use to me there. I made some friends, probably a few enemies and when I returned, I knew that my life was going to be different.

 

The first thing I did was sell the rights to my story to Netflix, in which the tribe plays a minor, albeit integral role. I adapted some of their finest recipes and opened up a pop-up restaurant in Las Vegas for the hungry gamblers in need of some traditional fare after a night spent losing oodles of money. Then I turned their land into condos. I taught each of them how to use computers, trade crypto, and the tribe is hosting a fairly successful podcast for the Financial Times. Since they had no written history to speak of, I turned their epic founding myth into an illustrated children’s book. Don’t worry, I listed most of the tribal council in the acknowledgments. Their frequent melodic chants are now a hit song for a teen pop star. I’ve considered teaming up with Disney and letting them live in an open-air museum, (no, not a zoo). However, I’m still on the fence whether that would be appropriate. 

Ode Zempic

 

Thou still a celeb of banality,

With a mortgage ‘til eternity,

Bit player, who can’t create,

Searching for something to ablate,

Why not the burden of a painful audition?

To say nothing of the weight of the human condition. 

Of agents and lawyers, Gods of Malibu,

Testing your patience like a vegan barbecue,

Shed your sin with a pill beyond compare,

Thus tip the scales to fame for trendy new beachwear. 

Find a screenplay you love, one that might sell,

Even if your best role is in development hell.  

 

Binge and Merge

 

That’s essentially the philosophy behind gigantic corporate mergers. Some worry about the lack of competitive edge, but I don’t. Because whenever I see a map – preferably the Mercator projection – I long for the wild, weedy days of Pangea. So much land and so many possibilities. One of my great desires is to do a road trip across the globe, which has been made impossible due to the shifting whims of plate tectonics. Too much ocean, too many archipelagos. 

 

As someone with many atlases to his name, companies are basically the same. Pangea was a pure land mass. It didn’t have any of the issues associated with island warfare. It was one big happy continent. I believe the same outcome is in store for the corporate world – that’s if it wants such a wide open future. 

 

I don’t want several ad agencies – I want one superagency that works on every brand for every client. Every employee would dress the same; down to their slacks, corduroy blazer and vibrant sleeve tattoo. People scoff at the notion that a company is like a family. I tend to agree. Since I think a company should be more akin to a small country than a large family.

Streaker of the House

 

The quickest way to stand out as a member of congress is to become a full-on streaker. Now you might think that in a group like that, parading naked through its halls is not exactly considered unusual behavior. While it’s true that sheer stupidity is to congress what raw athleticism is to the NBA, a college-style streaker is still rare. Most people gain followers by saying insanely idiotic things. That’s because politicians are less accustomed to accomplishing anything – good or bad. 

But a streaker’s role is an important one, especially as the fall legislative session kicks into high gear. The position is one of significant importance for a fraternity. Shameless individuals are attracted to it, while everyone else recoils in disgust. 

And what is congress if not a fraternity full of the incomparably shameless and mediocre?

Moral Repellent

 

Morals have a tendency of getting in the way of a good time or a bad argument. They can ruin a family dinner or a first date. But with a generous lathering of moral repellent, you can live as a blissful ignoramus. 

You shouldn’t have to worry about morals when talking to strangers or posting on social media. You should be able to do all those things and more in a tight vacuum of mindless rhetoric. 

Moral repellent was first developed during the Cold War when coffee house folkies wanted a way to support the Soviet Union while ignoring the crimes of Stalin. Let’s just say it wasn’t done through clever songwriting. 

The only issue with moral repellent is proper application. Unlike say, bug spray, you don’t need to re-apply over and over. There’s enough toxicity in one dose to change your values for good. Not only that, but it doesn’t even smell. In fact, you want to get it in your eyes since that will help alter the way you see the world. 

Laundered Gentry

 

The problem mankind has faced since exiting the Garden is our obsession with laundry. Clothes require cleaning and cleaning requires time. Which is odd since bathing aka skin laundry, is generally speaking an enjoyable experience. But the moment you’re washing a jean jacket instead of your grimy shoulder blade things change. 

 

Eating, while similarly monotonous, remains the best part of most days. It’s something to look forward to even for the dietarily restricted.

 

This is why the true mark of privilege is one’s distance from the act of laundry. Wealth is measured not in money but in piles of clothes. The ability to insulate oneself from the smell of detergent should be how success is judged. Like owning three hundred and sixty-five different outfits for every day of the year. At least that’s a start. Laundry is the only form of procrastination with such inherent joylessness, it makes you want to do something legitimately productive.   

 

Either that or commit to a nude lifestyle. Those are the only two choices. 

50 Ways to Peeve Your Lover

 

1.     Forget to take out the trash, Ash

2.     File your taxes late, Kate

3.     Max out your credit card, Gaspard 

4.     Overcook din, Lynn

5.     Miss a dish, Trish

6.     Stain the wall, Paul

7.     Track in mud, Bud

8.     Overwater a houseplant, Brant

9.     Spill some tea, Leigh

10.  Stain the bed, Ned

11.  Smudge the crystal, Crystal

12.  Transfer your life savings from a bank to a tube sock, Doc

13.  Buy ice cream that’s non-dairy, Terry

14.  Incessantly click your pen, Len

15.  Attribute everything in life to dumb luck, Chuck

16.  Refer to your significant other as “pal”, Hal

17.  Ignore the dehumidifier so your basement gets dank, Hank

18.  Trade your comfy bed for a gurney, Ernie

19.  Underprove your bake, Jake

20.  Don’t properly cut the wheels on a hill when you park, Mark

21.  Get an inappropriate tat, Pat

22.  Cop an attitude, Jude

23.  Lose the lease, Reese

24.  Behave like a martyr, Carter

25.  Subpar shoveling when it’s snowy, Chloe

26.  Ruin the dining table with melted candlewax, Max

27.  Act like a snob, Bob

28.  Constantly annoy, Troy

29.  Emphasize the superfluous, Russ

30.  Make a scene, Francine

31.  Too much dip, Skip

32.  Mindlessly unsort and recycle, Michael

33.  Bad breath, Seth

34.  Burn the chili, Billy

35.  Too hysteric, Eric

36.  Be naïve, Steve

37.  Perpetrate a global scam, Sam

38.  During dinner you yawn, Juan

39.  No epiphany, Tiffany

40.  Cork the wine, Tyne

41.  Always mad, Brad

42.  Move too slow, Moe

43.  Too much schtick, Rick

44.  Rant and rave, Dave

45.  Very gassy, Cassie

46.  Poor sport, Mort

47.  Never ready, Eddie

48.  Turn out to be a conman, Dan

49.  Late on the rent, Trent

50.  Lie and cheat, Pete

The 40-year-old Sturgeon

 

Most of his contemporaries were content to swim around all day. It was easy and understandable. Sturgeon can live in their sixties, notorious late bloomers in a sea full of much shorter life cycles. But this sturgeon was different. He liked swimming, not that he had much of a choice. 

He saw his friends caught up in trends and nets. Trends as in sneakers with lights on them. Nets as in fishing nets. He would never bite. It’s nice down here, he thought. Up there is strange, mysterious, and airy. He preferred to take his chances at the bottom. But he kept losing friends to the sunny surface. That’s when he caught his first glimpse of a line stuck on a neighborhood reef. He could make out the ripples of a small boat overhead.

This was his chance to get even, and more importantly, to get dinner. 

The fisherman fell straight into the water, splashing and flailing as he went deeper and deeper. I don’t have to detail what happened next with the man and the sturgeon. Suffice it to say, revenge is a dish best served at water temperature.  

Can you hate hummus?

Some people in the media will tell you that it’s not okay to hate hummus. That you can’t dislike a specific dip that gives you painful indigestion because other sauces and condiments can also lead to similar distress. They argue that other savory spreads attack your insides too. Like wild country paté. But at least with that you get a small insight into the moneyed world of 18^th century nobleman. Hummus does nothing of the sort. They concede it smells, but that hasn’t stop you from consuming fermented shark while on retracing a Viking voyage.  

The reality is, you can and should hate hummus. And you can and should hate lots of other dishes that crowd the table. You don’t have to choose between sauces and spreads. It’s a false choice to argue that if you hate hummus, you must love thousand island dressing. It’s just not true. You can hate both and still eat well. 

Errorist Attacks

Chuck Knoblauch wasn’t an errorist. As the starting second basemen on the legendary late 90s New York Yankees, Mr. Garlic  (a nod to his Teutonic forebears) or Blauchhead (a nod to his mental and physical lapses) inexplicably developed an inability to reach first base. Instead, he could easily hit hot dog vendors and unassuming fans with each errant throw. This former Gold Glove fielder found himself lost. But an errorist is something far more sinister and significantly dumber.

The label, “errorist,” has become a loaded term in recent years. Do we classify your snooty Uncle one after he confuses a fruity shiraz for a young Beaujolais? Traditionally, no. Errorists should be reserved for the breathtakingly wrong. The stunningly out of step, whose colossal mistakes make your stand in awe, mouth agape with spittle galore. You don’t attempt to wipe the drool from your chin, preferring to let it stain your recently pressed dress shirt. What a statement that is. For truth as well as your dry cleaner. 

Anyone can be misguided or a little bit confused. You can refer to your favorite sports team using the pronoun “we.” While you wear a jersey, you never seem to get any playing time. As much as it pains me to say it, you can refer to the Rockaways as “the best part of Brooklyn” despite it clearly being within the sandy boundaries of Queens.  A group of terrible tennis players shouldn’t be considered errorists either. And no amount of foot faults or obscenities hurled at line judges can change that.

Errorist organizations are different. They attack facts, truth, good old fashioned common sense. They are calculated and deliberate in their unwavering commitment to the propagation of falsehoods. What’s remarkable about the errorist as a type, is they think they’re right. That’s the difference between them and the likes of Chuck Knoblauch. He knew he was wrong as his bad throw spilled the beer and popcorn of paying customers. These people do not. They think they’re right, perhaps doing God’s work. But thinking and wishing doesn’t make it so. 

Since, ya know, they’re obviously, clearly, fundamentally, factually, and morally wrong. 

Log On, Log Off

 

Log onto your computer and read the steady stream of bad news. Get increasingly angry and certain of your moral rectitude. Read only things by people with whom you agree. Go down rabbit holes, worm holes, and black holes, only coming out the other side unchanged and unenlightened. Don’t waver even in the face of mounting evidence to the contrary. Change the subject. Start penning a missive without supporting points. Find the logic in your own illogic. Ignore any hint of common sense. Use antonyms as synonyms. Lose friends and allies. Casually pass around idiotic memes written by imbeciles like a joint at the Winterland Ballroom circa 1974. Cosign things only people you like. Be a little bit tribal. Be certain. Dismiss doubt. Conform. Nothing is as it seems, except for you always being right. Sometimes a cigar is just a shadowy government orchestrated plot to rob two hours of your time, ruin your breath and leave a bad taste in your mouth. Don’t trust your gut. In fact, buy extra tums just in case. And right when you’re ready to hit post and share with the world your brilliance…

 

Log off.   

The Center for Anti-Bassist Research

 

Too many people take for granted the domineering presence of the bass in contemporary music. Whether it’s jazz, rock, hip-hop, or the auto-tuned stylings of major pop stars, there is always that mindless beat thumping away in the background. 

 

What if you were told that the bass is a useless, superfluous, and utterly pointless addition to the Great American Songbook? We don’t need it. But to liberate ourselves and welcome a more just, bassless future, we need your help.

 

And by help, we mean money. Our goal is to collect every bass on the planet and set up a large bonfire on the quadrangle just off University Avenue. However, that won’t be enough. The basses currently in circulation are merely one hurdle in achieving our goals. We also need to stop production of basses at both the factory and the artisanal level. To wrest ourselves of the instrument’s clammy grip on civilization, we need to reverse centuries of rhythmic oppression. There is nothing a bass can do that a piano cannot do better. Little drummer boys have been essential to military formations since the dawn of man. Not so for little bass boys.  

 

But at the Center, we believe in changing the past as much as shaping the future. That’s why we are working with ASCAP and BMI to remove the bass from recording history through precision re-editing. Additionally, we are working on stopping the pernicious conservatory-to-bassist pipeline. So many young people choose bass because it’s there. It’s way to stay in the background and go unnoticed. At the Center, we’ve taken notice and we you will do with a tax-deductible donation.

How are things going? Great, thanks for asking. Our growing portfolio of anti-bassist mission statements is growing with bandleaders across this flawed nation adopting them. We hop that this becomes a prerequisite for every audition at any orchestra. First, you must demonstrate a commitment to the tenets of anti-bassism, then you must make us a substantial donation. 

 

By working together, our children and grandchildren might grow up never having to hear a lone bass note. Cash, checks, gold bricks accepted.  

Hello to All That

 

The Ex-New Yorker is an interesting specimen. They are, by their own constant affirmation, living their “hashtag best life” far from depravity of the Big Apple. It’s what they repeatedly tell you – always unprompted.

“I can breathe now,” they say. As if New York is a prison where they’re incapable of escaping. Good behavior is not taken into consideration. 

“Things are so much better now,” as if justifying their decision to leave a party while it was still going strong. They have no regrets about their decision. They want you, the New Yorker, to cosign. To tell them, all is well, and they did the right thing. But their ex looms too large in myth and memory, dominating every conversation, making it impossible for them to love where they are. 

What the ex-New Yorker forgets they do not have a monopoly on hating the city. Complaining here has its own regional flourishes. Who understands the failure of the subway better than someone living near one? Who can identify the screeching of an industrious rat tearing through a dumpster’s daily offerings?  

The ex-New Yorker wants absolution from the New Yorker. But it’s not up to us to provide. Nor is it up to God. It’s best left to the Department of Sanitation. Who better than them to deal with a steady spew of recycled talking points?